The Gaunts
by HP-Forever-XX
Summary: Fluffy slice of life about the Gaunt family. Though they may be living in poverty, with their little family, they have all they need


**Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 4—Round 12**

 **Team:** Holyhead Harpies  
 **Position:** (written on behalf of) Beater 2  
 **Task:** Write a fluffy slice of life story about the Gaunt family

 **Word Count:** 1,329

* * *

 **The Gaunts**

She was beautiful.

Though their surroundings may have been less than ideal—nothing like the grandeur of the manor house up the road from them—wallpaper starting to peel, tiles cracked, water stains that even magic couldn't remove, _she_ was beautiful.

And because of that, she was the only thing he noticed.

She was at the sink, washing up—something he never understood why she did without the use of magic. In fact, her casual insistence to not use magic for such casual, mundane jobs, which most of the wizarding community wouldn't have thought twice about, made her that much more beautiful. There was a certain innocence about it—a sense of vulnerability.

Everything about her was gentle. And for someone as rough in appearance, as brash in demeanour, solid and broad—the complete opposite to her kindly, dainty self—Marvolo found it a true blessing to find himself in her presence every day.

 _And_ , he thought excitedly, heart soaring, _for the rest of his life._

Though their shabby little abode was located within the woodland that lined Little Hangleton, a sliver of sunlight had forced its way through. It shone down through the cracked and somewhat dusty glass of the window, falling on the woman at the sink like a spotlight.

Her hair, a soft straw-like hue, practically glowed in the sunlight, almost as bright a gold as the heavy locket that hung from her neck. Marvolo looked upon her—completely oblivious to his lingering presence—with a heart full of adoration.

He admired, and envied, everything about her appearance. Pale blonde hair, glistening blue eyes, skin so delicate and soft, Marvolo could not have been more different. Darker, stockier, his skin hardened by manual labour, they were the most visually contradictory couple in the whole neighbourhood.

But Marvolo didn't care. He didn't know how or why fate had brought her to him, much less had the grace to have her fall as hopelessly in love with him as he had done with her in the instant he'd laid eyes on her, but he was grateful for it every day. Their son, Morfin, was the spitting image of him, and though Marvolo would never admit it, he always felt a little deflated that he hadn't captured even the slightest essence of his mother.

It was wasted, he thought, to have a mother so beautiful, so gentle, so inherently _good_ , and have captured none of that yourself.

But Marvolo had hope. As he watched his wife, now gently humming to herself as she continued to scrub away at the sink, he thought of the life growing within her. A daughter, he hoped, this time—who, like Morfin was to Marvolo, would be the spitting image of her mother—as beautiful in nature and appearance as she was.

Unable to stand there any longer and just watch, Marvolo moved towards his wife, taking her by surprise by snaking his arms around her waist from behind. Not that that was an easy task nowadays—the bump that protruded from her stomach was now so large that his arms barely fit. His fingertips could practically _feel_ the life beneath them, a soft, warm charge connecting father and (he hoped) daughter.

She gave a start, almost dropping the dish in her hands, and then laughed and relaxed when she recognised it as her husband.

"You shouldn't do that," he said, stern but concerned. "It… it can't be good for you. You should be _relaxing_ ," he insisted, still holding her, unable to bear the thought of letting go.

She just smiled, and Marvolo felt it radiate, warming the shabby surroundings. He regretted that he couldn't give her more. She deserved the world, and he had so little of it to offer. And yet, kind soul that she was, he had never heard a word of complaint utter from her lips.

"It _does_ relax me," she assured him.

Marvolo couldn't argue. He hesitated before saying, "You could at least use _magic._ "

She just laughed again, gently shaking her head. Tendrils of hair brushed against Marvolo's nose.

Finally, he released her—so he could look her in the eye. Those deep pools of blue.

"Magic doesn't solve everything," she said, and he almost thought he could detect a hint of sadness.

Both sets of eyes subconsciously flitted to the squalor that surrounded them, and Marvolo knew what they were both thinking. It had been one thing to raise Morfin in such conditions, but two children? He wanted to give his family _more._

"Marv, I've been thinking," she said in a breathy whisper, hand flitting to the heavy chain around her neck.

Marvolo knew was she implying, and in an instant, his calm resolve hardened. "No," he said firmly, though not aggressively. "No… We can't."

He knew it would solve all of their problems. He knew it would wrench them right out of poverty—selling Salazar Slytherin's locket. But it was a family heirloom. Other than his wife, his son, and his unborn child, that locket was _the_ most precious thing Marvolo possessed.

"It's too important," he said in a quiet, slightly hoarse voice, as though she'd just suggested they sell their son instead.

Sensing her feelings of remorse, her desire but inability to help their situation, Marvolo took hold of both of her hands, intending to re-summon that state of bliss she'd been in just moments ago.

"Don't worry," he assured her in a firm but equally as gentle voice. "We'll be alright. We'll work it out—just as we always have done."

To his delight, she offered a small, endeared smile, her beautiful blue eyes twinkling once more.

It was just then that Morfin burst into the kitchen, yelling with great enthusiasm. "Mama, Dada!" he bellowed, excitement practically bursting from him.

"What is it?" his mother asked, humouring him in that gentle, maternal way that she did so well.

"I did it!" Morfin yelled. "A snake! I talked to a snake!"

It was Marvolo's turn for adoration to flood his body. "You did?" he asked, genuinely enthralled by his son's apparent success.

The young boy nodded enthusiastically, a large toothy grin spreading across his face. "Green!" he exclaimed. "A little one!"

Marvolo was so genuinely impressed and touched by his son that he ruffled his hair. Their son was a _genius_. Marvolo had had no doubt that Morfin, descendant of Salazar Slytherin, would possess the gift of Parseltongue, just as all their male (and sometimes female) ancestors had, but he was shocked that he had developed it so early.

Their son was a _genius_ ; a magical prodigy!

"Will the baby speak it too?" Morfin inquired, staring, a little intimidated, at the huge bump his mother displayed.

"I don't know, sweetie," his mother answered before Marvolo had the chance. "Maybe."

"Well, go on, then, let's hear it," Marvolo, proud father that he was, jovially insisted.

Morfin looked a little overwhelmed but soon perked up, confidence surging through him. With another broad grin, he reached up, to their surprise, to gently grasp his mother's swelling stomach. Like a whispered secret, he pressed his face to the bump, and hissed, in a soft, chilling tone, words of, sure enough, genuine Parseltongue.

Marvolo heard them clearly, though his wife looked intrigued, herself not possessing the ability. _Hello, baby, can you hear me?_

Three sets of eyes widened as an unmistakable handprint briefly appeared on the fleshy canvas, no doubt in response to its brother's hushed words. The boy himself was gobsmacked, less so by his fluent words but the brief glimpse of the sibling he'd not yet met.

And as Marvolo looked on his family with pride, feeling (though he'd never admit it), a little choked up—at his beautiful wife, his energetic little son, and the tiny addition they were soon to meet—he'd never felt happier. He'd never felt a more assured sense that, while materialistically they may have had little, he had everything he'd ever need.


End file.
